Page 30 of On the Brink of Passion

Easy enough when she does shit like that. Until the warm-up is over, I’ve only got eyes for Jubilee. I don’t usually think much of her costumes, aside from making sure they’re not too slippery or won’t impede my visibility, or that the crystals won’t cut my hands. Aside from that, I’ve never much cared.

This one is something special though. Even as we’re skating off the ice, I can’t help notice how it emphasizes her hard-won shape, the cut of the muscles in her shoulders and her arms, while the short wispy skirt emphasizes her waist and her powerful legs. Prettiest dynamo I’ve ever seen. The color is nice on her too. A green so dark you might tilt your head in certain lights, trying to determine if it’s black, melting into a lighter green. And of course a pretty drape of crystals, because you can’t turn around in figure skating without getting an eyeful of Swarovski. I, on the other hand, am nothing special to look at. Black pants, white shirt, with a vest as dark as the darkest part of her dress.

To be honest, I was a bit peeved SIG rules prohibit men from wearing kilts. It would match our program music, and I’ve got nice legs, too, dammit. Why should only people who like the ladies get eye candy? It’s not time to fight the sexism of the SIGs, though, it’s time to get focused on what’s to come, the one thing we came here for.

We go through our usual pre-program routines, and I’m not surprised when Daphne walks in, and tells us we’re up next; Sabrina and Todd are sitting in the kiss-and-cry right now, waiting for their scores, which will be coming up any second.

I help Jubilee to her feet from where she’s been stretching on some mats, and that’s when it happens. There’s a pop of motion on her skate, and it takes me a second to process what happened. Her lace snapped. Fuck. We have a few minutes—and since a competitor at one of the national competitions snapped a lace a couple of years ago and had to borrow his coach’s shoelace in order to compete, we all keep a few extra in our bags—but this is not what you want to be doing mere minutes before you’ve got to give the performance of your life. You want to be doing the same thing you always do, not scrambling to replace a crucial piece of equipment.

Daphne’s come to a halt in front of us, and turns around. “What’s the hold—”

I cut her off so Jubilee doesn’t have to. “Broken lace. There are extras in her bag.”

Daphne drops a curt nod and then is off and running to where our things are stored in plastic crates with our names and nationality on them. You’d think they’d have something more official than a storage box labeled with sharpies—maybe a commemorative, artisan-carved trunk made out of locally sourced reclaimed wood or something? But no. Anyone who tells you being an elite athlete is all glamour all the time is lying through their teeth or didn’t have a clue in the first place. While Daphne’s taken off at a run, Jubilee is standing there, staring at her skate, not moving. Shell-shocked, that’s how she looks, but we don’t have time for that. I’m used to being the one who’s off in a pre-competition haze, the one she drags around like a kid at a carnival so I don’t get lost and wander over to the curling rink or something, but I can switch gears if I need to. And I need to.

I grab a folding chair that’s lining the hallway, tuck it behind Jubilee and then push her down onto it, getting on my knees and taking her foot into my lap. Worst version of Cinderella ever. Fast as I can, I tear at the lace, undoing Jubilee’s perfect bow and then releasing it from the hooks and unthreading it from the holes.

How the hell did this happen? We check our laces regularly for wear specifically so thisdoesn’thappen, and Jubilee is as anal-retentive about that as she is about everything else. It doesn’t make any sense until I get close to where the lace snapped. There’s something strange about the wear patterns on them. There’s always marks and stress where boots have been straining the laces, but this doesn’t look like normal use marks. They’re . . . frayed. Which would make sense if they were old and she wasn’t careful about replacing them. But—

No time for that now.

By the time I get the lace out, Daphne is back, thrusting a new one into my hand. And Jubilee . . . Well, Jubilee is just sitting there, looking at her skate in my lap as if it’s the most curious thing she’s ever seen. Her hands are resting on either side of her thighs, fingers curled around the lip of the chair, but her knuckles aren’t white. She doesn’t seem anxious, more like in shock.

“Beckett.” I wrench my head toward Daphne’s voice, and she’s standing there wringing her hands. “They just called your names. You’ve got two minutes to get on the ice, or . . .”

Or we’ll be disqualified. Yeah, I know. I’ve never worried about that two-minute call rule, because I’ve always been ready to step onto the ice, but no we’re not, and my partner is sitting in front of me like she’s been possessed by an exceedingly calm demon. Crap, crap, crap.

I start working the lace into Jubilee’s skate, praying I can get this right because everyone’s got their own particular way of lacing. I try to match it to her other skate, and while I work, I talk.

“Hey, Jubilee. You with me?”

She blinks up to meet my gaze, and her eyes are round, looking for all the world like everything’s suddenly been turned upside down on her. “Yes?”

That’s not encouraging, but it’s all I’ve got to work with. “Good. I’m doing the best I can, but you’ve got to tell me if it feels off, and as soon as I’m done, we gotta go, okay? Get on the ice and be ready to start. We’re going to kill it, same way we always do.”

She nods, still looking absent. How on earth has she made it through so many of our competitions with me being such a space case when this is weirding me out so badly? But she’s a stronger person than I am. One who can bend, bend, bend, and not break. Except someone broke her and if I find out someone did this on purpose, I’m going to break them.

Where there had been cheers in the arena, there’s no sound coming from there now, just an eerie silence because this is weird. This never happens. Except it’s happening now. My fingers fumble around the hooks, but I’m almost there, almost there, Jubilee observing my clumsy movements with a tilted head. Jesus I hope she’s back to her usual self by the time the music starts, because I can’t skate the biggest program of our lives with this wraith.

Finally I finish in a bow that would have usual Jubilee wrinkling her nose, but ghost Jubilee just blinks as I shove the ends into the tops of her skates so they won’t get tangled or caught. Then I’m grabbing her hand and tugging her after me toward the rink, with half a mind to sling her over my shoulder and haul her out there.

Daphne hustles after us, and when we reach the boards I have to nudge Jubilee into handing over her guards. Daphne looks way more freaked than Jubilee as I shove the broken lace into her hands along with my guards and the headphones that are still around my neck. “Don’t throw that away. I think it might’ve been tampered with.”

I don’t stick around long enough to see her reaction but just drag Jubilee onto the ice, and the arena erupts. Focus, focus. Nothing else matters right now, just the music, the ice, and my partner.

Chapter Fifteen

Jubilee

Shock and betrayal. That’s what I feel. That lace was brand new a couple of days ago, and there’s no fucking way it should’ve snapped. I’ve been using that brand for years, have never had any problems, and I always check them before I lace up, regardless. How did that happen? Is Beckett mad at me? Does he think I was careless? Irresponsible? Reckless? I’d die if he thought I’d put our program on the line. But no, he’s holding my hand as we skate onto the ice, and gives me a squeeze.

I turn my head, my expression probably pretty frigging desperate, because I’m at sea. I don’t even know what to do with myself. But Beck knows.

“You’re okay,” he mouths, and I believe him. I’m okay. More importantly,we’reokay.

I nod, and swallow, followed by a deep breath and then I let everything in. The noise of the crowd, the smell of the rink, the brightness of the lights, the way my skates glide on the ice. The skate Beckett tied for me isn’t perfect, which isn’t a surprise, but it seems a small thing now. If we were in practice, I’d tie it and retie it until it felt perfect, but good enough and in the running for a medal is far better than perfect and disqualified. At least it’s not the leg I land my jumps on. It’ll do. It has to do.

We find center ice and take up our positions, which happen to be facing each other, his hands at my waist, and my hands cradling his face.

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